Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3)

by M Harold Page

  But the Tolmec priest merely cocked his head to one side. "Make haste," he said, "A great feast awaits."

  The hellish gate opened onto a wide three-sided cloister, with Tolmec warriors stood like idols between each triangular column. In the centre, a great canopy of woven leaves sheltered low tables from the downpour. Naked boys scurried to lay out food and drink for the guests. Others swung burning balls of incense, harrying the worst clots of mosquitoes that sought refuge under the shelter

  "Welcome!" declared Lord Obsidian-Death.

  Behind Ranulph, little sounds spoke of the reaction of the housecarls – an indrawn breath, the rustle of clothing as men jostled, a subtle change in gait. Without turning his head, he regarded the Tolmec warriors. How many were there? Fifty perhaps. That gave odds of roughly two to one. "My friends," he said in Northern. "Do not seem too eager."

  The little sounds ceased. Lord Obsidian-Death ushered them into the shelter and seated them on cushions around the table. Close to, the food was strange indeed: all shiny yellows and reds, with more exotic purple and black fruits…? Vegetables? The housecarls hesitated. Osmund grunted, "Fuck this!" and bit a chunk out of something green. The big Northman's face purpled, but he managed to swallow. The other housecarls laughed and tucked in.

  It would be insulting to reject the hospitality. Ranulph hefted a drinking bowl in both hands, sipped then coughed. It was like molten metal. "Interesting."

  "Firewater," said Lord Obsidian-Death. "Our sacred drink."

  So this was Jasmine's "fuel". If he recalled aright the stories of his merchant friends, the trick in bargaining was not to show too much interest. Ranulph set down the cup and tried the dark beer instead. It tasted odd, but at least it didn’t feel quite so like having a Psalmist’s spiked mace forced down your throat.

  Lord Obsidian-Death clapped his hands. A pair of warriors took up position in each of the three corners of the rainswept courtyard. Ranulph set down the cup and made ready to go for his dagger.

  Lord Obsidian-Death eyed him appraisingly. "A ritual in honour of the War God."

  Without any fuss, each pair faced off and began to fight.

  "We have something similar," said Ranulph, trying to make conversation. "We call it, prize-play."

  An axe shattered a skull. Brains fell on the wet flagstones. The Northmen cheered and hammered the tables. Despite the rain, fat black flies settled on the corpse.

  Suddenly, the food was too dry to swallow. Ranulph swigged the beer and made himself watch the pointless slaughter.

  Lord Obsidian-Death said, "Mortal combat is a fitting way of sacrificing to the Gods, do you not think?"

  "Very," managed Ranulph. "Impressive," he added, and wished Albrecht were with him.

  A second fight ended with blood misting the obscene cloister.

  "Two less to fight,” remarked Thorolf, beside him.

  "I’m hoping there will be no fight," said Ranulph in Northern. He forced a smile for the benefit of his host. "We are slightly outnumbered."

  Two of the survivors paired off, while a third did a strange hopping dance on the spot.

  “I hope you talk as well as you fight, Lord,” Thorolf said. "Those axes look blade heavy, but these little men move well. And, as you say, there are lots of them."

  Ranulph spoke in Western for Lord Obsidian-Death's benefit. "The chief of my warriors observes your warriors with considerable interest." Lord Obsidian-Death's order was obviously a military one, like the Sword Brothers. Perhaps he was more comfortable with soldierly talk. Start with a compliment. "You must have defeated your enemies a long time ago."

  The Tolmec priest inclined his head. "How very perceptive of you. Defeated, and given to the Gods." He sipped his firewater. "Is this the custom in your land?"

  Conversation at last! "Not as such," said Ranulph. "We tend to give our God to the vanquished, rather than the other way around." He smiled.

  A weak joke, but the priest returned the smile. "That would be the God of the Elements, would it not?"

  Ranulph sipped his beer in a silent toast. Diplomacy wasn't so hard after all.

  #

  The handmaidens sliced the wet thongs from Jasmine’s quivering limbs.

  Wisdom-at-Night said, "You and your friends must now slip away."

  Every muscle protesting, Jasmine rolled off the altar. Her bare feet splashed into a puddle. Her wet hair flopped onto her naked back. The returning circulation prickled her arms and legs. She ached inside. But she was still quivering from the orgasm. She grinned and shook out her limbs.

  Pain blazed across her chest. A bloody fish tattoo now nestled between her breasts.

  She shuddered and looked away. Rubbing her wrists, she raised her voice over the hiss of rain. "Why?"

  "Lord Obsidian-Death thinks the priests of the God of the Elements stole our magic. He would give you all to the War God."

  Jasmine bit her lip. Marcel would have said, Situation first, soldier girl! Minor injuries can wait. "But you still have your magic."

  Wisdom-at-Night inclined her head. "Only a handful of rituals that my predecessor did not share with the priests of your God."

  "I didn’t mention any God."

  Wisdom-at-Night grinned. "You invoked him several times during the ritual." She snapped her fingers. A handmaiden approached with Jasmine’s utility belt, the combat dagger still in its sheath. "What else do you need?"

  "Firewater. As much as you have." Jasmine glanced at the pile of her sodden clothes, shrugged and buckled the canvas belt around her bare hips and felt like a soldier again. The movement made her chest throb. She bit back a curse. Even once the wounds healed, the tattoo would still be there. "Why the… why did you mark me?"

  Wisdom-at-Night inclined her head. "You are chosen to do the will of the Dancing Earth Fish." She called out orders in her own language, setting dozens of handmaidens into motion. She gestured around the five-sided courtyard. "It took a thousand sacrifices to prepare the incantation. Do you not feel honoured?"

  Jasmine blinked the rain from her eyes. There was something funny about the columns supporting the cloister roof. The carved skulls were too irregular, too finely detailed to be stone. She swallowed. "Honoured. Of course." She took in the handmaidens — be honest, slaves — the mutilated eunuchs... Her stomach lurched.

  Wisdom-at-Night grasped her arm with sticky fingers. Jasmine had to fight not to flinch away. "There should be no problem," said the priestess. "Unless your companions foolishly reveal their religious allegiance."

  #

  "You know of our God?" asked Ranulph, using his battlefield voice to be heard over the torrent hissing on the woven canopy.

  The last pair of Tolmec duellists fought on despite the storm, splashing through the bloody slick that now coated the paving stones of the Place of Warriors.

  Lord Obsidian-Death leaned over to whisper in a boy’s ear. The boy scurried off and the priest returned his attention to Ranulph. His sad eyes belied his smile. "Yes, my lord. In my grandfather’s time, a White Priest called Ignatius came to our shores to learn – they said — how to serve all the Gods, not just the God of the Elements."

  Saint Ignatius! thought Ranulph. His great grandfather’s by-blow and his father’s favourite saint.

  But why would the great cathedral builder be learning about heathen deities? "We worship just one god." Ranulph nearly said the One True God, but that would have been… undiplomatic.

  The duellists circled slowly around the courtyard, each with eyes fixed on the other, oblivious to the steaming raindrops bursting on their feather headdresses.

  "Strange," said Lord Obsidian-Death. "By all reports, Ignatius and his party took meticulous notes. Why not pass on what they learnt so that you could learn to serve all the gods?"

  "Perhaps the White Priests never made it home," suggested Ranulph. "The sea voyage is perilous."

  "Or,” said the old man, “perhaps they angered the Gods with some improperly performed ritual. That would explain why They wit
hdrew Their favour and took away our magic."

  Ranulph set down his cup of beer. "Your pardon, Sir Priest. Are you saying that you had powerful magic before the visit of Sain… this Ignatius?"

  Lord Obsidian-Death grinned, exposing yellowing teeth set with red gemstones. "Had you arrived in my great grandfather's time," he said. "You would have seen vessels of stone floating over the land, and other such marvels." He snatched an insect out of the air and crushed it between thumb and forefinger. "And the mosquitoes would not have troubled you."

  Ranulph massaged his temples with finger and thumb.

  Had these heathen magics inspired the miracles of Saint Ignatius, who had banished the mosquitoes from the Love Marsh, then gone on to levitate stones in order to build Kinghaven Cathedral? Or had the miracles been merely heathen magic? He felt a little sick.

  Saint Ignatius and his brethren were supposed to have been sojourning at sea, living off raw fish and practising the ascetic disciplines that raised their leader to living sainthood. Instead, he’d been off destroying Tolmec magic – not necessarily a bad deed in itself. But the Rite of Incineration required a necromancer to accompany the forbidden books to the stake, hence Lady Maud’s narrowly avoided fate. Something was not right.

  Ranulph coughed. "Did they take a Tolmec priest with them … to instruct them, I mean?"

  Lord Obsidian-Death tilted his head. "Certainly not. A priest may not leave his temple without warriors to attend him. The further away, the greater the host required." He smiled. "When visiting a foreign country, a priest is compelled to take an entire army."

  The smaller of the duellists stepped and swung his obsidian-headed axe. The other skipped out of the way, skidded on the wet flagstones and stumbled to a halt. The housecarls thumped the low table and yelled encouragement. The pair returned to their endless circling in the rain.

  Ranulph watched blankly.

  The miracles and the magic must be the same thing. Saint Ignatius really had stolen, not destroyed, the Tolmec magic. If that was true, then Hjalti and Ragnar had been correct; The Church had stolen the Greater Runes.

  Ranulph’s gut churned. Were all the Church’s miracles just purloined heathen magic? Was his religion a lie?

  He shrugged. No good knight really trusted the Church. Faith and Religion were not the same. One thing was clear: if the Church had the Greater Runes, then Ranulph’s duty was to get them back in order to fight the Invaders.

  "My lord?" prompted Lord Obsidian-Death.

  "Most impressive," mumbled Ranulph.

  Could he really make war on Church? Would God let him? True, he had tried to kill the Archbishop, but that had been in the heat of the moment when the fat cleric was trying to engineer the rape and murder of a lady. If only there were some way of knowing the Will of God… some trial by combat.

  The duel ended in a wet "thock!" The winner raised his axe and just stood in silence, the rain cascading down his face and shoulders.

  “Impressive,” said Ranulph.

  “My son,” said Lord Obsidian-Death. “But alas he will not be joining us to feast his victory. The Gods granted that we should keep a few choice rites. This one may only be performed by a warrior who has just won five combats." He clapped his hands and gave an order. A boy ran over to the winner and exchanged weapons.

  The victorious warrior now clutched an obsidian axe with an odd twisted handle. He squared himself, exchanged nods with Lord Obsidian-Death. Then, pride in his eyes, he braced his legs and whirled the weapon around his head, faster and faster.

  The housecarls fell silent.

  The warrior stretched out his arms, lowering the orbit of the axe. Ranulph winced. The blade sliced his neck. The head landed in a puddle with a pink splash. Spraying blood, the decapitated body took three steps towards Ranulph and collapsed.

  "It seems that my son has picked you to serve him in his quest, Ranulph Dacre," said Lord Obsidian-Death.

  A gong boomed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The esoteric Tolmecs and the mystical Northmen of the Rune Isles no doubt enjoyed a blissful communion.

  — Stella Ibis-Bear, "The Path of Enlightenment" (Kinghaven Theosophical Society, 1917)

  #

  Jasmine let out a sigh of relief. The airship was still where she had left it, lashed to the altars either side of the steps. Even though they weren’t proper soldiers, the ten barbarians guarding the gangplank were alert – perhaps because of the score of Tolmec warriors who loitered around the altars on the pyramid’s flat top, oblivious to the rain soaking their headdresses.

  Sigurd’s gaze flickered over Jasmine’s naked flesh.

  She squared her shoulders. The movement opened the perforations between her breasts.

  The barbarian’s jaw dropped. "What that?"

  She felt herself flush and resisted the urge to cover her shame like a belatedly prim statue of the Bathing Goddess. Anyway, he was just another primitive. Was there really anything to choose from between the Tolmecs and the piratical Northmen who would have cheerfully raped and murdered her? "I have firewater." Jasmine indicated the column of slaves climbing the steps behind her.

  Sigurd shook his head. "Thorolf say, not come near."

  "They are unarmed and unmanned." Jasmine indicated Wisdom-at-Night. "Only this lady will come aboard." She thought for a second then added, "On my honour, Sir Ranulph will have no complaint. He has my parole."

  The barbarian nodded. "Ah, parole. It is good."

  Jasmine looked up at the airship. Honour, parole – these words had no meaning next to the vessel's aerodynamic hull.

  It took a few minutes to organise the slaves into a human chain, pouring jug after jug of the local hooch into the fuel intake.

  "Might I see inside?" asked Wisdom-at-Night.

  Jasmine hid a grimace. The priestess didn't belong in her world. But, she needed to keep her on side for now. "This way." She led the girl up the gangplank into the Main Deck. The reek of unwashed men hit her like a face-full of stale jockstraps.

  "Oh," said Lady Wisdom-at-Night. "I was expecting something more magical."

  Jasmine surveyed the battered interior. The fight above Ragnar’s castle had left great gashes in the metalwork, not to mention tears in the canvas ceiling. Abandoned blankets lay scattered around the floor, barely covering the two-week old bloodstains. "Well, we have travelled a long way," she said and slipped into the Flight Engineer's station.

  Wisdom-at-Night leaned over Jasmine's shoulders. "So many exotic metals!"

  Jasmine laughed. "Aluminium for lightness. And don't ask where it comes from – I'm a soldier, not an engineer."

  The slaves worked continuously and the fuel gauge crept towards "Full". There was nothing to prevent her from pulling the Emergency Mooring Release and just flying away.

  In the distance, a gong sounded. Something made her twist to look down at the gangplank.

  The Tolmec warriors hurtled towards the Northmen, shoulder-to-shoulder, obsidian axes raised.

  “Ah,” said Lady Wisdom-at-Night. “It seems your friend let slip his religion.”

  Jasmine twisted out of her chair and drew her combat knife. "Fucking god-bollocks!"

  Down on the pyramid's platform, the glass-headed axes descended as one. Shields split. Blood sprayed. The tide of brown-skinned warriors overwhelmed the Northmen, swept away the slaves in a welter of gore, and thundered up the gangplank.

  Jasmine grabbed Wisdom-at-Night's wrist and broke into a run.

  A spear whirred past and stuck in the deck.

  Without breaking stride, Jasmine leapt onto the ruined radar plinth. Broken glass crunched under her bare feet. She launched herself through the tear in the ceiling where Sir Ranulph had made his entrance. The priestess sprang up to join her.

  The stench of scalding hot aeronautical glue caught the back of her throat. Gagging, she clambered onto the aluminium catwalk which ran along the narrow angle between the bulging gasbags.

  Tolmecs shouted. Sandals drummed on th
e deck. The airship jounced, but for now the extra lift from the day's heat compensated for their weight.

  Wisdom-at-Night coughed. "Is this some magical torture chamber?"

  Jasmine chuckled. "The firesilk traps the heat." She crouched beside a rent in the canvas ceiling. She glimpsed Tolmecs unloading the mailshirts. She turned to the priestess. "Why aren’t they coming after us?"

  Wisdom-at-Night touched Jasmine's shoulder making her aware of their shared nakedness. "Mere women are beneath the notice of a warrior."

  Jasmine felt a spike of lust and flinched away. In the gloom, the tiny priestess was just a dark presence, glistening with rainwater and speckled with jewellery. Jasmine knew what Wisdom-at-Night was, and yet she still desired her. She shook her head.

  It was time to start thinking like a soldier.

  #

  Ranulph sprang to his feet. His head brushed the sodden canopy. Water cascaded down the back of his neck.

  Lord Obsidian-Death rose with him. His fist came up, then hammered down, driving a black glass spike towards Ranulph’s chest.

  Ranulph caught the old man’s wrist. "What are you doing?"

  “Your blood will guide my son’s spirit to our magic,” grated Lord Obsidian-Death. His free hand clawed at Ranulph’s face. “Then we will sail to your country and exact our revenge.”

  Sandals splashed towards Ranulph’s exposed back. Keeping his weight low, he pivoted. Without slackening his grip, he hurled the priest over his shoulder.

  Screaming, Lord Obsidian-Death crashed feet-first into the face of the on-rushing axeman. His arm made a snapping sound, but Ranulph did not let go. He opened his mouth to make some witty retort, but all that came out was a roar of battle rage.

  Thorolf cried, "Sir Ranulph! Lookout!"

  Ranulph turned and drew the priest across his body as a shield. A glass-bladed axe sheared into Lord Obsidian-Death’s ribcage. Ranulph heaved aside the dying man. He jammed his elbow into the new opponent’s face, forcing the nose-bone into the brain.